February 27, 2007

Hey! Remember when my baby was a just a wee turtle, and I was all, "Oh my God, thank goodness for this baby swing, I don't know what I'd do without this baby swing, what with the massively time-consuming job of parenting a small blobby-like child who doesn't roll or walk or run or flip over the back of the couch headfirst for fun." Remember that?

Aww. Bald and toothless and already giving his mother the stink-eye.

Anyway, we're getting ready to stash the swing and other assorted baby gear in our attic, but Noah decided he wanted one last ride.

Hmm. What's this?

Are there any additional fabric choices? Perhaps something in a barnyard print?

What about a matching ottoman? Because I could definitely use an ottoman.

February 21, 2007

Our local Gymboree started doing weekly raffles for toys or something. I don't know. They told me to write Noah's name on a piece of paper and I obeyed. And then they called and said we'd won.

We won! A prize! I am the best name-on-paper-writer EVER.

My choices were a giant Gymbo doll or a mini-parachute. And since I do not allow clowns or clown-related accessories into my house, I opted for the parachute. I figured: mini! We could toss it over some chairs and make a fort! Or a cape for Gay Pride Man! Or we could stage an elaborate production of Noah and the Amazing
Technicolor Parachute, except that Mama will play all the parts while Noah is napping!

Uh.

The "mini-parachute" is gigantic. I don't have a frakking clue what the hell I'm supposed to do with this thing. In Gymboree they make the adults stand around and hold the edges for a variety of activities, all guaranteed to terrify about 75% of our toddlers, but what's the damn point of this thing at home?

WHY, I AM SO GLAD YOU ASKED:

Option One: Makes a lovely slipcover! Relive the magic of a Gymboree parachute ride every time you sit on your couch!

Option Two: A whimsical tablecloth! Your dinner guests will feel like they're dining under the Big Top, or possibly on mushrooms.

Option Three: Did you move at some point in the past year? The mini-parachute is perfect for hiding up to forty-five broken-down cardboard boxes. Also for seriously freaking you the fuck out when you catch a glimpse of this out of the corner of your eye when you get up to pee in the middle of the night because OH MY GOD, THE PSYCHEDELIC ELEPHANTS ARE BACK.

I think we're actually going to go with Option Five, which is leaving the mini-parachute in a wadded-up heap in the basement closet until spring, when I can cover our entire backyard with it whenever I don't feel like mowing the lawn.

February 19, 2007

We opted to get his hair cut for reals, at a for-reals hair cuttin' place where you can git your hair did up right, mostly because Jason instinctively wrapped his arms around Noah's head and shrieked GET AWAY FROM MY CHILD whenever he saw me approach with the scissors. Whatever, the shaking totally stops once I get some vodka in my system, but Jason insisted.

So FINE. Fifteen minutes and seventeen damn dollars later, Noah's hair is all business, no party, and 37% less likely to contain hummus from last night's dinner.

Pros: Dora the Explorer on television to stave off meltdowns.

Cons: They made Noah sit on the lap of some random goober in a striped sweater the whole time. Yeah, her level of excitement over Dora's goddamn backpack totally creeped me out too.

We brought the lip gloss from home. It's his most favoritest thing ever, especially when I give him all the various lip glosses that I carry around in my purse at the same time. Then he gets to build a fort!

I am posting this one only because I want someone to explain what the hell that other stylist is doing in the background. I say either: re-enactment of an awesome slow-motion bikini-carwash movie montage, or: the non-stop video loop of Spongebob has finally driven her around the bend and she's attempting to drown herself very, very slowly.

Jason seriously said the words "ORIGINAL HAIR" about four times during the haircut. They gave it back to us in a plastic baggie stapled to a certificate, because once you have a baby you become a big fat sentimental weirdo.

(But am I keeping this? OF COURSE I AM KEEPING THIS. IS PRESHUS.)

After. I admit I'm a little sad that our bath time shampoo mohawks are much less impressive now, but at least I haven't had to comb a booger out of his bangs in days now. Ah, sunrise, sunset. And snot.

February 15, 2007

When I was pregnant, I had a plantar's wart on the bottom of my foot. Gross, right? I swear it appeared about two days after my positive test, and it hung around until right after I stopped breastfeeding. I wasn't allowed to use any over-the-counter wart remedies and my dermatologist wouldn't touch it. "It's probably hormonal," she said. "It'll go away on it's own."

Well, FINE, IT DID, but in the meantime I was so horribly embarassed about the disgusting thing on my foot that I refused to get pedicures, despite that being everybody's suggestion to pretty much every pregnancy complaint on earth.

Feeling fat? Treat yourself to a pedicure! Stressed? Swollen? Anxious? 400 years pregnant and not dilated at all? A PEDICURE WILL FIX EVERYTHING.

I did get one prenatal massage at some point, but I lied and told the masseuse I'd sprained my foot so could she not rub that one at all?

I remembered this sort of randomly yesterday, right when the massage therapist flipped back the sheet and started to work on my foot and I involuntarily flinched because OH NO! HE'LL SEE I HAVE A WART AND THINK I AM GROSS. Then I remembered it's gone now and got back to the serious business of serious relaxing.

(See what I did there?)

Jason woke me up yesterday morning: Time to get up. You're going to the spa. All day! Surprise!

I tried to insist that no, I could not go to the spa today, I had websites to update! Websites! But since I totally just made that up, I went to the spa instead.

MY INCREDIBLY BUSY SCHEDULE:

9 am Cream and sugar body scrub, which sounded so delicious I don't think anyone can blame me for sticking my tongue out to taste it. Which was a bad call on my part.

10 am Best damn massage I have ever had in my entire life, especially the part when he told me that if I'm going to let Noah hang off my neck like a monkey I am just going to require regular massages, end of story. For my HEALTH. They are PRESCRIPTION MASSAGES. I could totally die otherwise.

11 am Facial, performed by a completely wrinkle-free woman who didn't look a day over 30, but then she started talking about what menopause is doing to her skin. I opted not to tell her about the Advice Smackdown.

12 pm A spa lunch, which was all kinds of healthy and full of antioxidents or something. Blah. But I got to read US Weekly completely uninterrupted.

1 pm Manicure and pedicure, during which I dug myself into a conversation hole when she started telling me some story about...something? A wrong phone number? I don't know. I couldn't understand her accent and opted to fake it and follow her cues for when to laugh, but then there was a whole other part to the story and I had no freaking clue what was going on, and she probably referenced the story about seven times during the manicure and I kept fake laughing when she laughed, and I felt like a total shit.

3 pm HAIRCUT OH MY FREAKING GOD. I copped to the kitchen scissor haircut I gave myself, although she insisted I'd actually done a pretty decent job, but still had to cut about three inches off to get my hair back in the "looks like hair" realm instead of the "looks like dried-out straw that the cow didn't quite totally digest, if you know what I mean" category.

Needless to say, I was pretty damn happy by the time I got home, and was fully prepared to put out, but Jason was not done yet. He cooked dinner, which included a printed-out menu and wine pairings and oysters and risotto and duck and dessert and every course had something red for Valentine's and I Am Not Shitting You Even In The Slightest.

(Dear Noah: I'm sorry for lying and telling you that 7:30 was night-night time. You'll understand when you're older and your dad has taught you all his tricks. Dude, you are going to get so much tail.)

I think it was during the White Russian Milkshakes (!!) when I declared yesterday to pretty much being the greatest day of my whole life, even beating out the day Noah was born, since even though I'd spent both days naked, on tables and wearing borrowed robes, there was just so much more dignity and a lot fewer fluids involved this time.

And for some reason, Jason chose this exact moment to finally tell me, after nearly 17 months of letting me think otherwise, that I had indeed pooped while trying to push Noah out.

Ahh, elusive dignity. One day you will be mine! For more than a couple hours, perhaps!

Anyway, pooping stories aside, it was a really fucking great day and I can't even pretend that it was anything other than completely awesome. My husband rules, man. RULES.

He even moved the tire down to the basement while I was out.

Now I must be off, for Jason needs some socks. And I am going to buy him some socks. Because I also rule.

February 12, 2007

Hello! I have been sick as a dog since...oh, Wednesday night or so. And contemplating that great mystery of motherhood, the way your child gets a slight runny nose -- an almost poetic runny nose, like a single tear on the cheek of a romance novel heroine, dampening the shoulder of her star-crossed lover like it slimes your shirt and upholstered furniture -- but then 24 hours later you're the one hacking up a damn lung.

I've taken to pelting Fisher Price Little People at his butt to get his attention, and don't you fucking judge me. I will come to your house and lick your telephone, swear to God.

Anyway! Absolutely nothing of interest has happened to me in days, except for my triumphant achievement of playing Trivial Pursuit with other adults on Friday night and remaining relatively low-key throughout the entire affair. (I am disgustingly competitive, in case you didn't know, and when I called Jason and told him we'd been invited to a Game Night he asked if I'd disclosed my little problem to the hostess, and even when I said yes he made me hand the phone to her so he could make sure she understood just how unhinged I get.) But I did great! And my team lost! And Jason's team won! And yet I did not throw vodka in anyone's face or threaten divorce or ANYTHING.

Jason thinks it was the cold meds. He is probably right.

(Am withholding sex anyway, but at least I can pretend it's out of concern for his health.)

Okay, so besides that, nothing has happened. Oh! Except that I got tagged for the Six Weird Things About Me meme by Her Bad Mother. And I kind of had the feeling I did it already, but since my site is a mammoth testament to Why You Should Always Use Categories And Have A Search Function, it took me forever to determine that yes! I did do this one already. And yet it has come back to me again. I'm going to try to not read into that too much, but instead am going to take it as a compliment, or perhaps a sign that I am the CHAMPION OF THIS MEME, AND IN FACT, I WIN THE INTERNET.

So...uh. Six MORE weird things about me!

1) I enjoy showtunes. I have occasionally been known to buy a Broadway soundtrack or seven. Although once I got married I mostly stopped, because everybody knows the REAL joy in listening to Broadway soundtracks comes from lip-synching along in front of your bathroom mirror or maybe -- just maybe -- re-enacting Eponine's death from Les Miserables dramatically in your living room. This gets much harder to do when you live with someone else, particularly someone else who is under the impression that you are sane and not the sort of person who still fantasizes about playing Little Orphan Annie and knows all the choreography to Hard Knock Life.

2) I have, however, performed the occasional song-and-dance number for Noah.

3) It should also be noted that I have a terrible, terrible voice.

4) I also enjoy those cake-decorating competitions on the Food Network. Sometimes I wonder if I missed my calling simply because it never occurred to me that professional cake decorating was an option, and whether it's too late to launch a new career, and if the professional cake decorating world is being flooded with amateurs now because of people watching that show and thinking back to how much they rocked at Play-Doh.

5) Every cake I have ever made was decorated with canned frosting, which I guess goes along with weird thing #3: Totally Unqualified Delusions of Grandeur.

(Hates everything on that list. Actually, hates all foods and food-type products, unless we're including crayons.)

(Wait. Am I supposed to tag people? Okay...um, you're ALL TAGGED. If you decide to play, leave a link to your entry in the comments and we'll all come laugh at your weirdness, and we'll see how long it takes for this meme to either come back to me or vanish into that good night, where overplayed memes and bad Quizilla surveys go to die.)

February 07, 2007

You've made it through the first month of working full-time and it's still really, really tough.

I know you feel exhausted and overextended. You feel like a failure.
The futility of pumping and the dwindling milk supply. The mistakes, the typos, the meetings you can barely stay awake for.
The short temper, the sigh of relief at Noah's bedtime, and the
crushing guilt over not enjoying every moment you spend with him. I
know that you dread tomorrow, because it's going to start all over
again.

I know you feel like you're missing out -- that you'd give anything to rewind all those hours and see what you missed. I know you think that if you could just stay home it would all be different. That you'd never miss another moment. That you'd learn to not even blink, lest he grow up too fast.

I know the love you feel for that baby has knocked you senseless. That it's the most wonderful, marvelous thing you've ever felt and you're compelled to constantly try to put it into words. I know you're frustrated with the limits of the English language because you just can't quite hammer your writing into the proper shape. So you keep writing, and trying, and it all falls so desperately short of what you really feel. This primal, desperate love burns through your chest and tingles out through your fingertips as you furiously tap at the keyboard in vain, day after day, entry after entry.

But here's the thing...

Fuck all that, get a grip, and please blog about something useful, like where you put the motherfucking ice scraper for the car, okay? Jesus.

Love, Self of This Year, Who Had to Use Her Arm and Some of the Dry-Cleaning to Brush Several Inches of Snow Off the Car to Get to Gymboree This Morning